Beyond A Lifetime
by KarmaBean
Summary: The end of the five part series. There's a wedding, there's a maze, there's Italy, and even a little bit of romance. Deceptive words, no?


Author's note: Ah hah! I have finally finished this damned thing! Five, count 'em, five parts. I'm done. There is no continuance, mon amis, because this part nearly drove me insane. Ha. So, on with the show. Except, acknowledgement of use: the poems are La Fin de la Journée and Hymne à la beauté from Les Fleurs du Mal by Baudelaire. What can I say, I've formed an attachment….  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
Beyond A Lifetime  
  
  
  
It stood five feet high, with six luscious tiers of impeccably decorated white cake. The icing was creamy butter rum, pale in color and enticing in scent. There were artful sugar roses with pale green leaves that tumbled from the edges in colors of tangerine, buttercup, ivory and every color in between. And on the very top were a brown haired couple, the man's a shade lighter than the woman's. It was a close enough likeliness, if you ignored the fact that the groom didn't have brown hair in real life. But the couple was negligible, because the cake was magnificent.  
  
And Rory Gilmore was gawking at it. Or more specifically, she was wondering how long she'd have to wait before she'd get a piece. It wasn't that the dinner was bad. In fact she enjoyed the foie gras immensely, even though she puzzled over the poached pears that happened to be on the same dish… And despite the many mini crab cakes and crackers heaped with Beluga caviar that she managed to devour—a tiny fattened duck liver with some fancy vegetables and hor d'ouevres weren't going to cut it. She needed real food, and real food was cake. Good, yummy, rich cake.  
  
She was wondering how she could swipe a taste of the frosting when her eyes met another pair of blue eyes belonging to a man at a distance of six feet. Rory suddenly knew that he knew exactly what she was thinking because his eyes narrowed and the corners of his lips turned down in distaste.  
  
Rory wanted to go over to him and tell him to mind his own business. Because she was a starving woman. Because he had no right to judge her. But then she saw the peach-colored rose in his lapel and thought better. He was one of the groomsmen, she remembered, partnered up with Paris's nervous thirteen-year-old cousin, if she wasn't mistaken. That was punishment enough. She decided to leave him alone, opting instead to turn and walk the other way.  
  
But which way to go? She didn't want to go back to her table; there was no one she knew anyway. Paris and her twisted seating arrangement had her square in the middle of a nightmare, with a pretentious astrophysicist on her right and a lovesick couple on her left. It was only by a stroke of luck, or a boon from Brad, that there were some people worth talking to across the table. However, they had come together, and were currently shakin' their groove thing like disco royalty on the polished dance floor.  
  
Absently, she thought about the copy of Les Fleurs du Mal in her evening bag. Well, it was a book of selected poems, certainly not a condensed copy of the two volumes. It had been difficult finding a small enough book to put in her impractically tiny bag, and it was toss up between Baudelaire and Jane Austen. Baudelaire won, because there was nothing she liked better than torturing herself at weddings. Even though she was supposed to break those habits. Reading and brooding were much too antisocial, she reminded herself.  
  
Unable to resist temptation, Rory decided to find a quiet place to read. And that meant leaving the white tent that the Gellars had erected on their vast estate to hold the reception.  
  
The Gellar-Langford reception; who would have ever dreamed of that union? Rory knew Paris was dating someone, but Paris never gave her a name, despite the fact that they were considerably close friends now that school and rivalries were behind them. He was just 'a tolerable surgical resident' who she shared occasional meals with between their rotations, which happened to coincide.  
  
It wasn't until Paris called her up to say that she was engaged that Rory knew who the mystery doctor was.  
  
(flashback)  
  
"You're engaged? But…I thought you were just dating! What's his name? Who is this guy?"  
  
Paris paused, sounding as though she were vacillating over the decision to tell Rory. "It's Brad."  
  
Rory shook her head. "Who's Brad? Do I know him?"  
  
"He went to Chilton up until junior year. Then he transferred, where we then subsequently met in that pathetic bloodbath some called a 'debate' over assisted suicide," she said dryly.  
  
Suddenly the fog in her mind cleared. "Oh my…Paris, you made him cry."  
  
There was a frustrated sigh on the other side. "That is a common misconception. Apparently he was only shaking and feeling a little faint. There were no tears involved," she said calmly.  
  
"But still…"  
  
Rory was trying to conjure up an image of the boy from their past, her would be Romeo had he known the lines well enough to pick up the pieces after Tristan's abrupt departure to North Carolina. She remembered that he had strawberry blonde hair that bordered on light brown, mournful puppy dog eyes and lots of freckles dusting his cheekbones. And those ears. Brad had these ears that positively stuck straight out. She hoped…  
  
"He's grown into his ears," Paris said, giving Rory chills. When had she developed psychic powers?  
  
"He has?"  
  
"Yes, and grown much taller. He's no Adonis, I'll grant you, but he's quite attractive in his own…quirky way," Paris said, her voice betraying her obvious love for him.  
  
"I'm still worried for him. Improved looks aside, is he still scared of you?"  
  
"Worried for him? If I'm not mistaken, last time I checked, you were my friend," Paris reminded her.  
  
Rory laughed. "Of course I'm your friend, but come on, Paris, you and I both know you're a bit frightening at times."  
  
"I am not."  
  
"Last time we went out to dinner at Maggio's, you made a new waiter quit because he couldn't handle the pressure of returning your lasagna four times."  
  
Paris sighed. "I specifically told him I didn't want the cheese, sausage or bread. Was it my fault that he couldn't write down those simple instructions? It's not as though I asked him to split an atom…"  
  
"Though that would have made for nice tableside entertainment…"  
  
"You know, this is moot anyhow. As a matter of fact, there is no dominant member of our relationship. It's almost frustrating how often I find myself having to argue over the simplest points that he should just agree on. I mean, sometimes we get into these…heated fights…and…"  
  
Rory's jaw fell, knowing where her train of thought was heading. "If you start talking about make-up sex, I think I'm going to have to hang up on you and start calling everyone I know to tell them that Paris Gellar made the world turn on its axis. Wow."  
  
Paris groaned. "Shut up," was all she managed.  
  
"Ladies and gentlemen, Ms. Gellar, president of the Chilton Debate Society," Rory giggled.  
  
"I'm going to hang up on you."  
  
"Seems as though Bradley-boy grew a backbone, aye?"  
  
"I really am going to hit the end button unless you manage to continue this conversation civilly."  
  
"Okay, okay, I'll be good," Rory promised. "So when's the wedding?"  
  
"In one year. We decided it would be on our two-year anniversary. Personally, I think he made the suggestion so he'd only have to remember one anniversary instead of two."  
  
"Smart boy. I can admire that."  
  
"And…Okay, I'm just going to get this over with."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Bridesmaids."  
  
"Please don't tell me you want me to be one. I already did it once for Lane, and it was the most terrifying experience in my life. If you have any ounce of compassion in you, you won't make me do it," Rory said in one breath.  
  
"Oh thank goodness."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Well, the thing is, my mother is making me have five bridesmaids, and they're all either cousins or Brad's sisters. I really wanted you to be in the party, but it doesn't matter since you don't want to be one anyway," Paris explained, relieved.  
  
"I love you Paris, but no, I'd curl up into the fetal position if I had to stand in front of that many people again. Lane's wedding was only a small affair, but I can only assume that yours will be attended by half if not all of Hartford society."  
  
"You are correct in your assumption," Paris said, sounding dismayed.  
  
Rory laughed softly. "I can't say that I envy you at this particular moment."  
  
"I'll be surprised if less than 500 people are invited."  
  
"Hah. I don't want to even imagine the planning process for such a big wedding. You're going to have to decide on invitations, seating arrangements, colors, dresses, floral arrangements…"  
  
"You're cruel, Rory Gilmore."  
  
Rory sighed. "You're lucky, Paris Gellar. I'm really happy for you."  
  
"Thanks. Hey, you never know, you could be next…You could be the one to catch my bouquet at the wedding, and you know what they say…"  
  
(end flashback)  
  
As it happened, she didn't catch the bouquet. She stood off to the side, watching with undeniable fascination as Louise Grant rose from out of nowhere to catch the flying bouquet three feet in the air, elbowing two other tenacious women and landing perfectly on her classy four-inch Manolo Blahniks. It was more athletic ability than Rory had ever seen displayed by Louise. She had to respect a woman who knew what she wanted and drew blood to see it happen.  
  
Rory suspected that she caught the bouquet hoping to land husband number two, Evan Jamison, the handsome corporate raider who caught the garter. She off-handedly wondered how the two sharks would interact…  
  
Once outside of the tent, Rory took a deep breath, feeling a bit better than she had all evening. It was too nice a summer night to be spending it inside a tent, no matter how nice it was. Besides, she wasn't the only one with the idea in her head, there were plenty of other people milling around the grounds.  
  
It wasn't the first time she'd been to the Gellar home. She'd visited a couple times during the end of high school and her year at Harvard. So she did have some idea of how to get to her destination of choice: the maze. Mr. Gellar, while he still lived here, had the maze of hedges constructed to amuse him. But once done, no one but Paris ever made use of the beauty and privacy afford by the tall walls and complicated twists and turns.  
  
Paris had taken Rory through once, but there was no way she'd try to wend her way through at night, even if there were Chinese lanterns that lit the paths. She'd just find the nearest bench and sit with her book of poetry that summoned the past to haunt her.  
  
*  
  
She walked into the maze, completely unaware of anyone being near her. Rory was intruding upon someone else's solitude, but he wasn't about to say anything. No, he was stunned speechless because he didn't expect to see her ever again in this lifetime.  
  
But there she was, in all her radiant glory. She was wearing in an almost diaphanous indigo dress that clung to her body most enticingly. A dress that tempted him even more with the deep v-shaped neckline that dipped into her cleavage. It floated around her ankles; ruffling with the gentle breeze…the same gentle breeze that played with the ends of her softly curled hair that hovered just below her shoulders.  
  
Had Rory Gilmore always been a breathtaking seraph?  
  
How had he missed her inside the tent?  
  
He'd been there the entire time, only regretting that he hadn't driven into early enough to catch the ceremony in the church. Tristan had been detained in the office, wrapping up some details of one of his latest cases. He'd barely had enough time to drive to his apartment and change before he sped down the interstate and out of the city for his old friend's wedding.  
  
His senses had obviously been dulled over the years. The old Tristan DuGrey would have been able to feel Rory's presence despite the crush of the large society wedding.  
  
But fate had still delivered Rory to him in the maze, where he was trying to get some fresh air without someone asking him about his parents or if he was going to get married soon. Fine and no.  
  
Rory only looked to her right, sitting on the bench that had a lantern directly above it. She missed him sitting on the bench perpendicular to her left, sitting quietly in the darkness.  
  
She pulled out a small book from her sparkly little handbag—typical Rory—and flipped to a dog-eared page. Her back curved as she hunched over to read the small print. Boy, did this bring back memories.  
  
Part of Tristan wanted to stay in the shadows and leave her undisturbed so he could drink in her beauty to his heart's content—who knew when he'd get the chance again? But the deeply masochistic part of him wanted to do more than that. It wanted to reach out at touch her, stand close enough to smell her scent…that hint of wisteria. It wanted to kiss her. Even though it was forbidden.  
  
As per usual, self-preservation was not a part of the decision he would choose.  
  
*  
  
"Good book?"  
  
Rory nearly jumped out of her skin when she heard the intensely familiar male voice. She glanced around but saw no one. Was it possible that she was imagining him again? But then she saw a stripe of white move to her left. She looked up in time to see him walking up to her, every of inch upon gorgeous inch of him being slowly revealed as he came into the halo of light provided by the lantern.  
  
She could do nothing but stare up at him, still unsure if the vision was real. Rory licked her lips quickly before tucking her bottom lip between her teeth and taking him in. He was wearing a classic single-breasted black tux with a crisp white shirt beneath. His tie was nowhere in sight, but it was probably neatly tucked inside a concealed pocket in his jacket. His dark blonde hair was different—more controlled, less youthful—and so were his eyes. They were sharper, more reserved.  
  
"Tristan?" she asked timidly, sounding again like the twenty-one year old fresh out of college.  
  
"Hello, Rory," he whispered.  
  
He was real.  
  
She wasted no time in flying into his arms, not caring if it were the incorrect thing to do at the moment. Rory only knew that it was where she wanted to be. She was so caught up in the feel of him Rory didn't notice that Tristan didn't immediately return the embrace.  
  
But when he did, when she felt the pressure of his hands against the barely- covered flesh of her back, Rory sighed. It felt good. So she let herself luxuriate in the feel of skin on skin.  
  
"How've you been?" she asked. Rory was reluctant to let him go, but she did, and pulled him down to sit on the bench with her.  
  
He nodded. "I've been okay. My life's pretty good. Though I can definitely say it's better now that I've run into you."  
  
"Ugh, still with the sweet talking. Don't you ever turn it down a notch?" she asked teasingly.  
  
"Never. Where would the fun be in that?" he asked, meeting her eyes.  
  
Rory wondered why she never realized how dangerous his eyes were before tonight. Especially now, when he was so up close and she could feel rather than see them.  
  
"So what have you been up to? It's been, what…five…"  
  
She cleared her throat. "Six. It's been six years," she told him. "I didn't think it would be this long before we saw each other again."  
  
Tristan smiled slightly. "Why's that?"  
  
Rory shrugged. "Well I gave you explicit instructions to give me a call when you became a hot shot lawyer, and you did agree to that, Mr. DuGrey. And as you well know, a verbal agreement is binding. You sir, have broken that agreement."  
  
"I have not," he retorted. "And really, verbal agreements aren't often binding…"  
  
"Shush! In my world they are. And sure you have. I haven't seen or talked to you until now."  
  
"Yes, but I'm not, nor have I been a hot shot lawyer." Rory shot him a quizzical look. "I spent two years as a law clerk with the SJC of Massachusetts. It wasn't until about seven months ago that I joined a law practice in Boston. I'm but a lowly associate; the term 'hot shot' is lost if used on me."  
  
"How many cases have you tried?"  
  
"Two as second chair and four as first," he replied.  
  
"Losses?"  
  
He had the grace to look chagrinned. "None to speak of. But they were all relatively small cases but one."  
  
"No buts," she said, holding up a hand. "You, Mr. DuGrey, will be on the partnership track in no time. Thus, you are a hot shot."  
  
"You'd say anything to win."  
  
"My time was not wasted under Paris's debating tutelage at Chilton."  
  
"Maybe you're the one that should be the lawyer instead of me. Maybe your talents are being wasted at Time."  
  
"Oh, I'm not working there anymore," she told him.  
  
"Really? Who's the unlucky employer?"  
  
Rory contrived a glare. "I'll let that one slip; you're lucky, mister, I'm feeling benevolent."  
  
"Thank you."  
  
"You ever seen The Smith Girls? It's a dramedy about this mother and daughter living in this little town in Vermont…"  
  
Her words were cut short when he started chuckling.  
  
"What's so funny?" she asked, frowning slightly.  
  
"I've seen that show. One of the associates in the office is obsessed with that show. Every Tuesday night she stops everything she's doing…briefing, researching, everything, and she turns on the television in her office and watches. Half the time, Rosie makes me watch with her," he explained. "Why do you ask?"  
  
"It's my new job. Well, not really new. It's been on for a year…so a more accurate description would be that it's the job I took after quitting my editing job at Time."  
  
"So you're a writer on the show?" he asked.  
  
"You could say that," she said vaguely. "I also created, and produce," she added with a proud grin.  
  
"Not that it's not a great accomplishment—it's a good show—but how did you go from wanting to be a journalist to creating a television show?"  
  
"To explain it all would be to take much more time than I have patience. However, the abridged version is that I ran into an old friend from college—someone you never knew—who happened to be the godchild of the wife of a man whose cousin's brother in-law is the CEO at the WB. She passed along the script, which I'd been working on idly in my spare time, and voilà, I have a show."  
  
Rory winked. "Gotta love the power of obscure connections."  
  
"The mom on the show is really hot," he commented off-hand, earning a hit on the shoulder. Tristan laughed. "What? She is. And she's funny."  
  
"What do you think of the daughter?" she asked timidly.  
  
"Mmm…She's definitely got some potential…Julia's perfect, except for the fact that she's a tease."  
  
"What? How could you say that? She's not a tease."  
  
Tristan laughed. "Sure she is. Just think about that poor boy, Connor, she's dangling at school. He's all but drooling over her and…"  
  
Rory watched as one corner of his mouth lifted in a quirky expression. "What?"  
  
He looked her straight in the eyes. "Oh my god, you're Julia and I'm Connor."  
  
*Uh oh. *  
  
*  
  
She looked at him as though she were an errant child, caught with her hand in the cookie jar. "No."  
  
"Don't lie to me. It doesn't suit you," he admonished lightly.  
  
Rory squeezed her eyes tight and hunched her shoulders forward. "Fine, you're right, they are us. Don't be upset!"  
  
Instead of being upset, Tristan started laughing.  
  
Rory opened, her expression petulant. "What are you laughing at?"  
  
"I find it funny that I'm the basis of a television character," he grinned.  "That and I keep thinking about just how much you've opened yourself to litigation by sticking so close to real-life…"  
  
Tristan dispelled the serious tone of his words with a wide grin.  
  
Rory made a noise that told of her disbelief. "You shouldn't make light of it. Your character has an intense following."   
  
He arched an eyebrow. "Is that so?"   
  
"It is. And though it pains me to say it, half our teenage demographic is spawned because of your appeal. Or at least the appeal of your on screen incarnation and his roguish good looks."   
  
"I think I'm better looking," he said airily.   
  
"Conceited."   
  
"Justified."   
  
"Noted," she conceded.   
  
"Thank you," he said.   
  
For a moment they just sat silently, not looking at each other, but the stars. It was almost as if they didn't know what to say to each other.   
  
"So how close is fiction going to stay to fact?" he asked.   
  
"Meaning…"   
  
"Meaning, last time my co-worker made me sit down and watch, young Connor was just being shafted by the girl on his offer of rock concert tickets. Does this mean Mini-Me won't be appearing much anytime in the near future before his untimely departure to North Carolina?"   
  
"Hey, that was the season finale; I can't give you spoilers for next season," she teased.   
  
"Rory…"   
  
She sighed. "For your information, he'll be back in the very first episode."   
  
"That's not very realistic at all."   
  
"Is this my fantasy world or yours?" she asked.   
  
"Your fantasy world includes Connor being in Julie's life when he never would be if you followed history?"   
  
"There's a serious romantic following for those two," she told him. "A writer has to listen to her viewers."   
  
"I thought I noticed a spark between those two," he said with a soft smile.   
  
Rory closed her eyes. "And…I was hurt when you stayed away from me. This is a way for me to fix things."   
  
He shook his head. "You had Dean."  
  
"So?"   
  
"Why didn't you tell me this when we were going out?"   
  
She shrugged. "It never came up."  
  
What was he supposed to say to something like that?  
  
Tristan looked down at their hands, poised next to each other on the iron bench. What he wouldn't give to reach over and touch her pinky finger with his…  
  
"He's moving to San Diego in a couple months."  
  
"Huh?"  
  
Rory tilted her head in his direction. "Connor. The show."  
  
Tristan smiled. "So there's no future for the kids? What happened to listening to your viewers and the massive romantic following?"  
  
"I'm still listening. She's a sixteen year-old; I have to have some pining and bemoaning of her wretched existence somewhere. Better soon and over Connor than…"  
  
"…Over her immature floppy-haired ex?" he suggested.  
  
Rory shot him an admonishing look. "Alex has a crew cut," she said.  
  
"Whoops, my mistake."  
  
"Sure it was," she said, suppressing a grin.  
  
"Okay, I admit it, it wasn't a mistake," he admitted. "You know my opinion on Dean."  
  
She nodded. "Yes, I do."  
  
"He was never good enough for you," he muttered. "Then again, I don't think I was either," he added, this time much softer.  
  
Rory shook her head. "Don't say that. You know that's not true. I'm the one that…"  
  
Tristan picked up the book that she'd abandoned. "Baudelaire. I haven't seen anything like this in a while."  
  
She sighed. Subtlety was not his game. Fine, she decided. She'd go along.  
  
"I hadn't read in a while, so I figured it was a good night to revive it," she lied. "Besides, it fits nicely in my bag," she joked.  
  
He chuckled slightly. "Of course."  
  
She watched as he leafed through the pages, and paused to frown at one particular poem. He snuck a sly glance at her before beginning to read, "My mind, my bones, yearn, clamoring for sweet repose unburdening. Heart full of fire, funeral thought, I will lie out; your folds will cling about me: veils of shadow wrought, O darkness, cool and comforting."  
  
Rory's lip twitched.  
  
"This is good wedding reading to you?" he asked.  
  
"I didn't say it was event appropriate," she said, snatching back the book. "Although, depressing poetry isn't such odd reading for a single woman at a wedding, especially as old as I am."  
  
"You're twenty-eight; that hardly qualifies you as an old maid," he teased.  
  
"Kidding."  
  
"I knew that."  
  
She grinned. "Sure you did."  
  
Tristan nodded, but looked back down at the book instead of continuing the conversation.  
  
Rory listened to the strains of music coming from the tent. It was a jazz tune that was soulful and sweet…she'd heard it before, but couldn't remember from where. Maybe it was Sarah Vaughan? At any rate, it was a severe departure from the music that everyone had been dancing to earlier. Rory nearly choked on her champagne when the band started playing "Thank You For Loving Me." Who knew Paris was a closet Bon Jovi fan? Or was it Brad's influence? Either way, it had made her evening. Up until now.  
  
"Do you want to dance?" he asked.  
  
His words snapped her from her reveries. "Oh…"  
  
"You don't have to. It's just that you were swaying, and if I remember correctly, that was normally your cue for me to ask you to dance," he said softly.  
  
It was a revelation while they were dating. Tristan DuGrey of the effortless charm and debonair appearance hated dancing in public. It was like pulling teeth to get him to dance with her at parties and restaurants.  
  
Or a convincing kiss, she thought with an inward smile.  
  
"No, I'd love to dance."  
  
Tristan stood up first and offered his hand. Rory raised her eyes to his and felt the warmth wash over her skin. She smiled brilliantly as she placed her fingertips in his palm and slowly rose to her feet.  
  
"I hope I remember how to do this," he said with a slight laugh as he took a step forward and put his right hand on her waist.  
  
She smiled as she placed her left hand on his shoulder and slid her fingers into the cradle between his thumb and forefinger. "Oh, I think we'll do just fine."  
  
Tristan shifted their handhold and held their joined hands against his chest, close to his heart. Rory took the cue and rested her cheek against his shoulder and closed her eyes. Their feet began to move to the lilting music and their bodies swayed together, just like old times.  
  
"This brings back memories, doesn't it?" she asked.  
  
"Yes this does," he murmured.  
  
"Do you remember when we danced in Rome?" she asked, already recalling the images of that night in her mind.  
  
"Of course," said Tristan. "We walked through the Piazza di Spagna and I bought you…white gladiolas on the Spanish Steps."  
  
"They were so beautiful," she said softly.  
  
"Not as beautiful as you were that night," he told her. "I think it was one of the few night I actually asked you to dance first."  
  
"A miracle."  
  
(flashback)  
  
They had wended their way through the vendors and artists on the Steps to take a short walk to the Trevi Fountain. It was one of the sights that Rory had on her list of "to-sees." Not only was it an artistic masterpiece, but she also wanted to go along with the legend, just for kicks.  
  
Rory thought there still might be tons of tourists like herself crowding the fountain to take pictures and whatnot, but it was relatively quiet for eight o'clock at night. There were some people: couples taking walks after dining at places like Al Piccolo Arancio or San Crispino, or just enjoying the warm summer night.  
  
She and Tristan blended in just fine, even as she dragged him down the steps in front of the fountain to the very edge and dug out a ten-cent euro coin. Rory spun on her heels and squeezed her eyes shut as she tossed the coin over her shoulder.  
  
Tristan smiled. "Want to come back to Rome, huh?"  
  
Rory opened her eyes and grinned. "Absolutely, and I figured I'd go ahead and do as the legend said, lest I take any undue chances."  
  
He laughed as he drew her into his arms. "You, Rory Gilmore, are wonderful."  
  
She put her arms over his shoulder and threw her head back dramatically, tossing her dark locks like a starlet. "I know. Sometimes I'm so wonderful I can't even believe how one person could be so wonderful."  
  
Tristan leaned forward and pressed a kiss to a pulse point on her neck. "It's just not fair to the rest of the ordinary people."  
  
Rory shook her head woefully. "It can't be helped."  
  
He chuckled again. "Dance with me."  
  
She glowed. "Ooh, public dancing. Risky, Mr. DuGrey," she said, even as they began to move together.  
  
"The things I do when you're around me…"  
  
Rory put the white blossoms to her nose and gazed up at him. "Wanna be even riskier?"  
  
"Dare I?"  
  
"I think you do."  
  
His lips twitched. "What does the lady suggest?"  
  
Rory grazed his earlobe with her bottom lip before whispering, "Sing a song."  
  
He guffawed. "What?"  
  
"Well, it seems odd to dance to no music," she reasoned, as he spun her out and pulled her back in.  
  
"You know I can't carry a tune to save my life," said Tristan, just as reasonably.  
  
She giggled. "Yes, but you're so cute when you try."  
  
Tristan shook his head. "How about I do the next best thing?"  
  
She was skeptical. "Which is?"  
  
"Put your cheek on my shoulder, and just trust me."  
  
(end flashback)  
  
"Do you come from the deep sky or from the abyss, O Beauty? Your look, infernal and divine confuses good deeds and crimes, and for this…you have been compared with wine," he murmured.  
  
Rory's eyes flew open as a shiver ran down her spine. He remembered.  
  
It was the same poem he spoke to her while they danced. It was the same poem she could find blindfolded in the little book that lay on the bench not three feet from her because it was worn and crinkled from her tears. And it was the same poem now that was threatening to make her cry again.  
  
His warm voice was little more than a bare whisper as he continued, "You retain in your eye the sun's rise and decline."  
  
Her hand moved across his shoulders until it was snaked around his neck. She just wanted to get closer to him.  
  
"You strew perfume like an evening…stormy and wild…our amphoral mouthed kiss is a potion so fine, it turns a hero into a coward, and makes courageous a child."  
  
Tristan skimmed the tips of his fingers along the edge where silken fabric met velvety skin down her back. His cheek pressed against her tangled hair as he breathed in her scent.  
  
"If your eye, your smile, your feet, open the door to an Infinity…I love but can never comprehend."  
  
She knew he was coming upon the end, and she wasn't ready for it. Rory held on just a little tighter and closed her eyes, thinking it would last that much longer.  
  
"Of Satan or God, Angel or Fiend, who cares?  As long as you transcend, O fairy with velvet eyes rhythmic, fragrant, glittering, my one unique queen. This hideous universe, the heaviness of time," he finished.  
  
They came to a stand still, as both the poem and the music came to an end around the same time. Rory stood there for a second longer, wanting to memorize the moment. But the tears that gathered in the corners of her eyes threatened to overflow, so she raised her head, blinking them back, so she wouldn't ruin his jacket.  
  
"Looks like you were right," he said softly, gazing down at her. "That was perfect."  
  
Rory pulled away then and turned away, fearing that she'd do something stupid. She swiped furiously at her eyes, frustrated that she hadn't brought tissues in her bag. But before she could get too angry with herself, Tristan was in front of her again, tilting her chin upwards with his forefinger.  
  
"Let me."  
  
He took his snowy white handkerchief and blotted at the tears running down her face. The cool linen against her flushed skin would have made her sigh if she hadn't been holding her breath.  
  
"Thank you," she breathed, as his hand came to rest at the juncture between her neck and shoulder.  
  
Rory watched as a conflicted expression flitted across his features.  
  
"Can I kiss you right now?" he asked, his voice hesitant.  
  
Rory shook her head. "Do you even have to ask?"  
  
She couldn't deny the erratic rhythm of her heartbeat as his lips descended over hers, wondering if this was the wrong thing, a split-second impulsive action that would ruin everything. But as soon as their lips met, she stopped thinking. It was just as she remembered and more.  
  
It was a practiced kiss of tenderness and longing. His lips swept over hers with a gentleness that spoke of how much he cared for her. It was a kiss that made her want to sigh and laugh, smile and cry, and never let go.  
  
But she had to. So she did.  
  
Tristan cleared his throat. "Thank you."  
  
"Likewise," she said, disentangling herself most reluctantly from his embrace.  
  
Rory knew this would be the last time for a long time that she'd see him, get to be with him. She wasn't going to delude herself that there would be any sweet lover's reunion from this one night. Maybe they'd keep in touch. Maybe there was something for them in the future. But not now. As much as she loved him, now wasn't the right time.  
  
Tristan reached out and touched her cheek with the back of his hand.  
  
"It's getting late, isn't it?" she asked, sensing the end. Rory reached up and covered his hand with her own, making him smile.  
  
"Yeah, I think so," he replied. "I have to drive back into the city."  
  
"You're not staying for the cake?" she asked.  
  
"I don't think so," he said, stepping forward and giving her a final hug.  
  
"Promise me it won't be another six years before I see you again," she whispered.  
  
He sighed. "I promise. In fact I'm supposed to be out in LA in a couple weeks. I'll call you," he said, drawing away.  
  
"Ah hah, but you don't have my number."  
  
Tristan smiled slyly. "Ah hah, but I do."  
  
"How?"  
  
"Paris gave me your cell phone number a couple months ago. I wondered why the area code wasn't a 202 or a 703; I figured they'd done something stupid like made up another area code."  
  
"The question of why you haven't called me before now just begs to be asked, but I won't," she assured him. "Because I'm sure you have a very good reason."  
  
He nodded. "I do."  
  
"Mmhmm. So I guess I'll be expecting a call from you soon," said Rory.  
  
"Yes, very soon," he said, squeezing her hand.  
  
"Good, because I've missed you," she said, her heart hurting a little at the admission.  
  
"Me too," he murmured. "More than you'll ever know."  
  
Rory wanted nothing more than to reach up and kiss him again. But she couldn't. So she opted for another hug. This time much more brief.  
  
"Don't be a stranger, okay?"  
  
Tristan leaned down and kissed her forehead. "Never."  
  
That was the last thing he said before he left her. Rory hadn't seen it, but the emptiness she felt was absolute. She had closed her eyes, not wanting to see him go, and by the time she reopened them, he had disappeared into the night.  
  
Rory told herself that she didn't need to be sad this time. It wasn't like ten years ago when he walked away from her in the crowd. No, this time they had a chance to be together.  
  
But maybe she was getting ahead of herself. Who knew if she even liked Tristan anymore? It had been ten years after all. A whole decade. That much time could change a person.  
  
Just then she heard her cell phone ring. With a sigh she walked over and retrieved it from her purse. Only one person would…huh. Not Lorelai.  
  
Rory grinned as she put the phone to her ear. "Hello there, sexy," she teased.  
  
"Where are you?" asked a sharp voice.  
  
"Miss me already?" Rory asked as she started walking back to the tent.  
  
"Look, Gilmore, you have two minutes to get into the tent, because I know you're not in here. We need to cut the cake, and I want my best friend with me. I will not be behind schedule on account of you. I have a flight to catch for heaven's sake!" exclaimed Paris.  
  
"No, I will not calm down," Paris said to someone in the background. Probably Brad; he was the only one who'd dare to tell her to relax. Rory could see her now, pacing around in her perfectly fitted pearl white wedding gown.  
  
Rory giggled as she walked through the entrance into the tent. "Don't worry, I won't let you miss your honeymoon. I just came inside," she said, scanning the perimeter of the cake. Sure enough, there was Paris, looking impatient as Brad stood by to one side, trying not to laugh. "I even have you in my sights."  
  
It didn't take long for Paris to locate her and send her a friendly death glare. Rory couldn't help but laugh some more.  
  
Now wasn't the time to contemplate her possible future with Tristan, she realized. She had a newlywed bride to appease and a cake to cut.  
  
The End 


End file.
